Clarence Day
Life with Father is the notable work that defines Clarence Day's place in American letters, a title that has attached itself to his name across the decades since his death in 1935.
Day was born in New York City on November 18, 1874, and he died in that same city on December 28, 1935, at the age of sixty-one. He was educated at Yale University, and his working life as a writer encompassed an unusually wide range of forms. He was a poet, an essayist, a cartoonist, a humorist, a screenwriter, and an autobiographer, producing work throughout in English and operating squarely within the American literary tradition. That range of practice — moving between verse, visual art, and prose — gave his career a restless, plural quality that resists easy summary.
As a humorist and autobiographer, Day worked in modes that required both comic instinct and close attention to personal experience. His identity as a cartoonist sat alongside his identity as an essayist, and both alongside his work as a screenwriter, suggesting a writer comfortable with shifting registers and audiences. These overlapping roles were not incidental to one another; together they constituted the full scope of what he produced across his writing life.
Life with Father stands at the center of that body of work, the single title by which Day has continued to be identified. He died in New York City on December 28, 1935, and the record of his career — poet, cartoonist, humorist, essayist, screenwriter, autobiographer — remains the most concrete measure of what he accomplished.
Quotes by Clarence Day

Babies are unreasonable; they expect far too much of existence. Each new generation that comes takes one look at the world and thinks wildly, “Is this all they’ve done to it?” and bursts into tears.

A universe capable of giving birth to many such accidents is – blind or not – a good world to live in, a promising universe.

Dogs have more love than integrity. They’ve been true to us, yes, but they haven’t been true to themselves.

The egg it is the source of all. Tis everyone’s ancestral hall. The bravest chief that ever fought, The lowest thief that e’er was caught, The harlot’s lip, the maiden’s leg, They each and all came from an egg.

Father expected a good deal of God. He didn’t actually accuse God of inefficiency, but when he prayed his tone was loud and angry, like that of a dissatisfied guest in a carelessly managed hotel.




